Blinding blankness is a term I’ve used, and to use it twice may be abuse, but it seems to me the best excuse for a sudden lack of thought or muse.
Staring down onto the page my mind is filled, but not with rage—anxiety, rather. Anxious to relieve my pain. Anxious to dig deeper into my brain. Anxious to fight. Scared to be wrong. Anxious to affirm things that I’ve known for so long.
Depression is a nasty curse. Society usually makes it worse. I am judged, and so are you, based not on character, but instead the ruse. The ruse that we all don so well. The ruse that says—if you can’t tell—“I’m doing fine. I’m doing swell!”
Writing, for me, is the only way to let out the things I dare not say when society decides to look my way. Fears of regression. Fears of regret. Fears of the thoughts that get stuck in my head. It should be different, but it’s not; instead, they expect us (you and I) to lie til we’re dead.
Nobody wants to hear that you hurt. Nobody wants to deal with your pain, but everyone loves a good kiss in the rain, and your Instagram post where the view was insane. The fact is that they don’t even care that you’re well. They’re only after the picture you sell—the one where you painted “success” so bright that in their eyes you couldn’t possibly fail—so that they can hang it up, pretend that it’s theirs, and be blinded from all of their pain as well.
The world is hurting.
A Poet’s Qualm 